


let’s get lost right here

by CHAISU



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Codependency, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First ... everythings, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Build, Slow Burn, makoto is a small town boy, yoshi is a city boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:41:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21855439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CHAISU/pseuds/CHAISU
Summary: “How do you dance to that stuff?”Makoto is about to answer — to tell him music is something to listen to in solitude, it’s vibrations that let your forget how to breathe, makes it easier to indulge in self-thought,and Yoshi is looming over him, in his space, like it isn’t his own anymore, pulling him from his (not anymore, nothing ever belonged to him since the moron before him moved in, changed his life forever,) comfort, and spins him, so that the walls blur and refocus onto his own face.“Let’s dance!”(Yoshi’s smile is original — Makoto doesn’t know what this means yet, but to put it to simpler terms, it is not something he has ever seen. And it is not something he thinks can ever be recreated by anyone else.)He can’t dance. He can’t dance at all. But for some reason, the space in Yoshi’s arms is better than the space at his desk, the space of his creativity, so he figures it’s okay to melt. Just this once.
Relationships: Arai Yoshi/Manabe Makoto, its not ur time darlings, others to be referenced
Kudos: 3





	1. the “ideal”

**Author's Note:**

> add me on discord to talk abt ocs #CHAISU1847>  
> or to see if we share any of the same interests!! 
> 
> shoutout to my besties anticipating fluff  
> u r not getting it anytime soon  
> >8) 
> 
> nicole don't compete w/ me, thnx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on discord im #CHAISU1847 
> 
> talk to me pls
> 
> this is for my friends who i wuv very much and have been waiting for this hahah SORRY  
> start ur 2020 w/ feels

Maybe it had been a mistake to wear a cardigan in the middle of July, he decides, but he hasn't fit time into his schedule to go clothes shopping for the new school year, and he's _exhausted._

Way too tired to be focusing on anything but the current task, that is. He's still managing to carry a load of things from the back of the cab in hazy fatigue, careful not to drop the small boxes of things that make his character. The first load isn't too much, with only two boxes under each arm and a plastic bag held in his right hand. He figures he ought to make the trip shorter; though it didn't seem the chauffeur paid any mind. 

If anything, he has a suspicion that this man is interested in him. On the ride over, he asked too many questions and, as they reached just outside the dormitory, he'd attempted to gain his information, like his name and phone number. To say the very least, Makoto is _extremely_ uncomfortable just standing here. But he takes advantage of the man's patience. 

Shikata Kikai is the definition of a model academy, and he can't help but feel lucky that he, a small-town youth, with nothing to his surname but his linguistic abilities (looking back, it might've been the long, persuasive essay that secured him a spot in this place, but that's just doubt speaking) and a 'strong sense of self-awareness', as said by his mentor, who was a frail old man with "fashionable" glasses given to him by his wife.

He'd owe it to him for letting him welcome his introverted-ness, but he quickly came to realize the world is kinder to those who act, so as he learned to lie and develop an entirely different sycophant, the one who reared its face to the public, 

he also learned to keep his privacies in his fabrications. And if they'd ever reach popularity, _publicity_ — then maybe that old man was right. Until then, Makoto bounds up modernized white steps because the sight of _that_ many people crowding the elevators makes him queasy, and looks for the same number he'd gotten by email a few weeks prior. 

(His biggest fear right now is somehow forgetting his number and entering some random dorm and being completely humiliated as the other person has to tell him he's in the wrong place, labeling him the Moron of Shikata Kikai.)

He's quickly stopped as soon as his sole hits the top step by an upperclassman, who went by Haywood (identified by his nametag on his salmon vest, coating his crepe toned shirt) and took both boxes from underneath his arms in an awkward exchange, standing mutely off to the side as if waiting for the _other_ to say something.

The nerve of him, Makoto thinks and still takes a moment to process what just happened, to pretend like _he_ isn't the oddball in the situation.

"Can I help you?" He asks, not letting his demeanor flounder by one bit. His arms rest coolly at his sides, the objects in the bag he held feeling more abundant now that his hand is closer to the ground. 

"Yes, you can, by showing me your dorm." The bigger man replies, monotonously, blocking pretty much all the lights in the corridor with his tremendous manner. "You're a freshman, right?" 

Makoto nictitates for a beat and answers the next one. "Yes. Though whatever you're doing is unnecessary, I can take them there myself."

"This is my job." The Hulk answers and Makoto can see that there's no point in trying to debate with him any longer, so he just recites the number he'd read those numerous days ago, and follows the man who makes him feel like an ant the whole way there. 

"Do you need more help with anything else?" He questions, but not directly at him. His eyes are centered ahead, legs maneuvering with ease. The only time his head moves is to bow his head at other people in the same uniform; Makoto's quick enough to catch the name Uramoto, the others being gone without a trace. 

"Ah, my apologies, I have extra stuff inside my car.." Honey eyes glance backward, longingly towards where he arrived. "I'm fine with carrying the rest, really. I'm certain several other troubled kids are deserving of your time." 

(This is a failed effort to get this humongous man off his rear. His neck is starting to hurt.) 

"And you are one of them," he sets the things by the door, and even bent over is he the size of the Tokyo Tower, "what does your car look like?" 

"Ah, actually, it's a taxi... yellow, with a red stripe along the middle. It'd be easier for me to go back and get it, would it not—?" He begins but doesn't get to finish when the husky man takes off back down the steps and towards the sliding glass doorways. In a flash, his blonde hair is several feet under him, a clashing hue versus the green outdoors.

He sighs. Whatever. Maybe he'll make sure it's his dorm before the guy gets back.

Leaning over to retrieve what's already stacking up beside the borders of the door, he fumbles to retrieve the card that would unlock it, the one that kicks him into reality as he realizes he's really _here_. Once he finds the small, shiny sleek material, he approaches to let himself in,

when he feels a hard THWACK against his face, sending him staggering back. 

Well, that's a reality check as well.

The door had been opened, too fast for him to prepare, and so severe that everything on his face stings, and he's pretty sure he feels liquid streaming down his lip...

The kid who stands before him doesn't seem to have registered it yet. In fact, he appears ecstatic, bouncing himself against the floorboards under his white socks, climbing just short of his kneecaps. "Hey-o! You must be my roommate—!" 

Makoto stares at him through slitted eyes. They aren't hostile, but they sure are meant to threaten him.

But it doesn't seem to work. 

Instead of getting the reaction he wanted—guilt—the other's eyes widen in shock, covering his mouth as he exclaimed, 

"Dude! What happened to you!? Why are you just standing there with a bleeding nose, are you okay?!" The idiot is laughing now, and it sounds genuine, but it's cut short by a sudden awareness. "Shit, I have to get your tissues! Wait right here!" 

He speeds off somewhere, who knows, and although he'd told him to remain out in the hall, he steps inside anyway, because it's _his_ dorm. 

(Or so he thinks. At this point, he sort of hopes it isn't, seeing as how this guy just annihilated his nose.)

The colors are a neutral tone, the walls a lush white and the lights a soft, fairy glow. Just like any dormitory (he'd done his research), it looked like any regular home that wasn't yours. It looked like you were visiting your friend's house, or your aunts or uncles, maybe distant cousins, but it never looked like a house you could recognize and live in as your own. Along with this, he had an epiphany; he's come to realize that's why all college freshmen get so homesick for at least the first few months of university. They can't find a resemblance to their homes here. But that should also be obvious, his brain's a little fried from the sun.

Makoto places his palm just short of his chin to catch any excess blood, while this fool did who knows what in the lit-up bathroom. Whatever it is, it's taking so long that he's made up his own weird, overanalyzed theories. 

The footsteps rip his concentration away from his surroundings and to the taller male nearing him, who at first, looks super confused as to why he is in their _shared_ dorm room. "Take these and just shove them up there. Are those your things? I'll carry them!" 

Makoto doesn't get to retaliate when he's swooping everything up, bringing his belongings to the empty room, he's guessing. He doesn't peek into anything once, and he's thankful that his flatmate can respect privacy, at least. He isn't so appreciative of anything else, like how much his face hurts.

"Is there anything else? I wanna help you the most I can. Hey, what happened, by the way, did someone hit you? Sheesh, I didn't think this school had a thing for violence." The guy before him has way too much sympathy for a crime he'd committed. 

"Yes," his eyes are still capable of murder, "you did." 

"What!?" That seems to take him by surprise. 

Makoto isn't amused. 

"You're kidding, right? Are you kidding?!" 

Makoto only peers back at him without saying anything.

"Wow, really? Wait, I don't remember that! When did I hit you?" Makoto notes that this guy has a poor memory. Or, maybe, he's met the dumbest human alive. So he decides to have some fun.

"You don't remember? About an hour ago you punched me in the school bathroom. Hm. I could file a statement against you, I really could. Maybe a restraining order." 

The look on the other's face is mortified, and Makoto has to beg his mouth to not lift in the slightest and give away his terrible joke. "Wh—Huh—?! Did that really happen?! Like, you're not kidding? I'll repay you I swear, I'll do anything! Don't report me!" 

"Anything, you say?" he reaches for the Kleenex box to replace the ones currently lodged in his nasal canal, "Did I inform you on my allergy to those with pink hair?" 

"Is that even real?!" The idiot is dumbfounded, looking at his pink strands. "I was gonna get a new color soon but I guess I've been procrastinating on it... I was gonna get blue! Are you allergic to blue hair?" 

"Why don't you just wear your natural hair color? Are you aiming to complete the rainbow?" Makoto never really understood people who're aims is to stand out. The very thought of everyone's eyes on him brings a chill to his spine and dryness to his mouth.

Before Door Boy can answer, which is good on his part because he doesn't really look like he wants to, he sees the familiar shade of spiky hair peek through the doorway and the same ruby eyes make contact with his own. "Am I disrupting something? I'm sorry."

"No, no. You're a great help, thank you... I'll bring the stuff to my room," and just as he's about to go get them, Haywood and his new addition, being his noisy, rambunctious bunkmate, who insisted he'd be of great help, form a line to his room, passing the goods to set onto the ground.

Makoto can only watch in bewilderment, and a little bit of frustration. He wonders if everyone in this institution has problems _listening_ to people. Or maybe it's all due to his soft voice... 

Retreating into the kitchen, he washes his hands, takes out the napkins in his nose, and then washes his hands again, and then wets his entire face just to be sure, and then wipes it down. The AC isn't on, so his skin is still scalding and his cardigan is starting to feel itchy against the moisture on his arms. If they could just hurry up whatever they were doing, he could crash onto the covers of his own bed with the window wide open and the AC cranked to a hundred. He could take a nap and call back home to tell that he'd gotten to school without getting mauled to death (just hit in the nose) by city crazies like the people back home thought he would.

In fact, the city, so far, is not as hectic as he imagined it to be in his brain. Besides his roommate, nothing happened on the plane ride, or the train ride, and maybe all the stuff that happened in the taxi ride was all in his head. He tends to overanalyze people's actions all the time. 

"Are you two all set?" He hears the deep voice from the hallway, belonging to Haywood, all however-many-centimeters-this-giant-is of him. "If there's anything else you find trouble with, reach out to a resident assistant. There are many of us."

A resident assistant huh? He should have figured. 

"Yeah! My roommate's nose was bleeding, he shoulda reached out to you guys. But it's cool, cause I helped him!" He can hear the grin on the idiot's face. He wants to go over there and hit him over the head, which could definitely be justified as payback, but he doesn't, because he is a star student who is not going to waste a scholarship by hitting someone on move-in day. 

"Bleeding? Is he alright?" There is a tone of concern that Makoto did not think this man could possess. 

"Yeah yeah, wait, where is he anyway?" 

That's his cue to come out, so he does, not really sure where to put his hands. They fold in front of him, as he tries to mask how much he wants to jump into the bathroom and take a cold shower. 

The Idiot opens his mouth to say something, but a lightbulb suddenly goes off above Katsurous head, and he's speaking again, "Did you two get the tour already?" 

"Tour? You give tours?" The Idiot asks. Makoto looks at him as if he ought to have three heads, one of them barely clinging onto the shared brain cell.

"Yes. I am assuming you haven't. If you two could follow me." It is a wonder how a man this big can move so fast. Makoto follows along behind the two, picking up his pace as they followed the Bean Stalk. 

☼

Haywood is the worst tour guide to ever tour guide, and halfway through the tour, Yoshi (the Idiot) realized he'd forgotten his shoes back at the dorm, so for an awkward hour (that's what it felt like), Makoto had to endure a painful silence next to the bigger male, who did not make it any better at all by not offering to help Yoshi on his way back, so the other came back after the hour _still_ shoeless because he couldn't find their dorm, and they wasted an hour of the tour guide default standing like fools by the staircase. 

Never, ever again.

Makoto felt like he'd been reduced to dust, blown away, formed back into a solid, and then beaten by the hammer of social awkwardness. And it didn't help that Haywood is just _so_ monotone and robot-sounding that everything he said sounded like he was being held at gunpoint to say it. 

Makoto is upset that he wasted a good nap for this. A perfectly good nap. 

When they get back, it is nearing the afternoon, edging towards twelve-thirty, and Makoto still hasn't washed off all the sweat. He can physically feel himself dying on the inside, as well as all the rest of his organs since he couldn't fit in the time for breakfast. But he'd much rather just sleep it all off and put it off for dinner. 

That is until Yoshi barges into his room twenty minutes later, actually dressed up, in a big white shirt, the kinds where you can't quite figure out if they're wearing pants or not, _and_ the shoes he'd forgotten, untied, of course. He is beaming brighter than the light that is pouring in from the billowing blinds. 

As for Makoto, he practically leaps out his own skin, like he's being caught for shoplifting. All he'd been doing was sitting in front of his fan, but nonetheless, he did not like being snuck upon. And he swore he locked the door. 

"Do you not know how to kn—"

"I'm getting lunch, are you coming with? Man, that tour got me hungry. I'm in the mood for McDonalds or Freshness Burger, but you can choose too. Or, or, Wendys. I haven't had Wendys in a long time... Did they come out with anything recently?" When he talks, he doesn't stop, and as many times Makoto looks for an opening to tell him to get the hell out, he doesn't, because he doesn't take breaks when he talks like all his dialogue doesn't consist of a single comma or period. 

"Have you ever heard of knocking?" He repeats once he's done talking and is _finally_ taking a breath. 

"Oh yeah, I should've done that, but it's not like I caught you doing something personal! You're staring at your fan like a dog. Are you dying? You look like you're dying." Yoshi rubs the sides of his arms, eyeing the window with a squint. "It's freezing in here! I don't have the AC on for a reason, yanno."

"And that reason being? Do you enjoy sweating to death? Is that something I should know about you?" He didn't expect to sound so tense, but quite frankly, he's annoyed, and tired, and hot. That is not a good combination for anyone, not just him.

"Nah, cuz I hate the cold," Idiot continues without the bat of an eye as if his passive-aggressiveness is so easy to ignore. It just frustrates him more. "That's why I'm here and not in, like, Sapporo or something. Man, have you ever _been_ there? That place is _cold_!" 

The way Yoshi speaks is so animated, he wonders why he's here and not someplace for voice acting. 

"Okay. Are you done?" Maybe with him gone, he could relax a bit, like he's been trying to _all day._

"Huh? Wait, are you coming or not? Did you eat anything today? You need to get out into the city man, it's so nice!" Yoshi is so bright right now, Makoto wants to turn the fan and blow all of his aurae away.

"I'm not going." 

"Want me to bring you anything? I got the perfect thing for ya, cheesecake Mcflurry. Have you had it yet? It's so good, and it'll cool ya down!" He can feel the warmth of someone who is standing seven feet away in his doorway. 

"Okay. Thanks." He just wants the conversation to end. 

"No problem dude! You're gonna have to go out sooner or later, yanno..." 

When Makoto doesn't answer, eyeing the fan as it _still_ isn't enough to cool him off, he can eventually hear the door close and footsteps leading out of the room. 

And finally, does he get up and clamber into the bathroom like a child spotting an ice cream truck. 

☼

Night at Shikata Kikai is quieter than it is morning, and purely so he guesses it's because all these kids are fast asleep, sucking their thumbs and calling their mommy goodnight, but he's quick to figure out that isn't the truth. 

Strangely, at eleven, when he's supposed to be sleeping but he isn't, his eyes burned to the pages of Snow Country that became fuzzy sometime ago but he can't quite remember nor does he feel the want to refocus. Tomorrow he'd reread the pages he's lost to dissociation, but for now, the kanji blurs into big blobs of a black puddled mess, and the sounds outside his door are bothering him. So much, that he refuses to budge even by a centimeter until it was gone, or until whatever that thing is came into his room trying to kill him. 

Then he'd... then he'd...

It opens the fridge, silence. It closes it, opens it again, and then closes it with some annoying whine. He is ninety-nine percent he knows who it is now, but if he left, and came face to face with Kuchisake Onna, he'd... he'd...

It walks to the room next door, being Yoshi's, so it really must be that Idiot, parading around when it's way past bedtime. Makoto doesn't have an ounce of care in his body to go check, and still feels his bones shoot out from his very flesh when the door is swung open, the bigger male standing there wearing actual jeans. Somehow, that's scarier than randomly being caught in no action. Again.

"It's late." Makoto tears his face away from the pages and gives his eyes time to process the shadow fumbling to find a light source. When it fails, it follows a path to his window and closes it. Makoto hugs his clothed arms. 

"Yeah, and? You've never been out past nine?" Makoto doesn't reply. He speaks again. "And you seriously need to keep this window closed before you get sick!" 

"What is it you want?" He butts, and he can't help but mirror the temperature of his room in the way he talks. 

"I was just gonna offer if you wanted to go out. Hakata's Market is open and I'm hungry 'n you could meet some new people. My friends would like you!" 

_Friends already?_ Is there some guidebook on socialization he's missing on?

"Do you know what time it is? Do you have any idea?" All of a sudden, the heat that he tried so hard to get rid of snakes it's way back into his room, and the black sweater he's wearing is uncomfortable and clinging to his chest, instead of billowing as the cold air moved through the fabric like a cloud. 

"Eleven thirty. Why? You're still up, you might as well." The nonchalance the other gives is not a good sound to him, Makoto thinks. There are only a certain number of people who can pull that off, like him.

"Do you plan to do this over the school year?" He snorts, reaching to grab a fan to cool himself with because this big idiot is still in his room and he can't change tops. "I think it would clash with your studying, would it not?" 

Makoto isn't sure as to why the other boy takes the time to stroke his chin, because he's pretty sure he doesn't have anything to think about, seeing as he doesn't contain a single brain cell in his pea-sized brain.

"Well, duh! College is about having fun _and_ learning. If you only have fun you'll fail but if you're just learning you'll lose your mind. It's gotta be a good mix of both, but I'm not very good with scales." Makoto feels less special getting accepted into Shikata Kikai every time he opens his mouth.

"Okay. Well, I think I'm going to sleep. I have a lot to do tomorrow." It isn't a rude thing to say at all, but Yoshi looks more hurt by him saying this than all the other things he'd said to him today. 

"Alright, that's cool! See you morning Makoto!" 

Makoto doesn't actually sleep. He goes back and rereads the pages he wasn't clearly focusing on before, and goes right back to dissociation. 


	2. jeopardy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That's your first thought?" He raises an eyebrow, his hands now resting in his lap, and he doesn't look as smug as he usually would, instead confused. "Hm, well if I lived there, I wouldn't be here. I'd be trapped in a cage of ice, like those depictions of cavemen." 
> 
> "Uh..." Yoshi sets the chopsticks down, both meals now finished. As he thinks of wherever Makoto might've grown up in, he looks at the limited drink offers, eyeing the ramune specifically. "Siberia?!" 
> 
> Makoto shakes his head, still looking composed, but Yoshi imagines he's getting a kick out of this. 
> 
> "Can ya give me a hint?" He opens the strawberry ramune, letting it fizz down his throat. "Is it close to Japan, or is it like, really really really really far away? Like, like... like Alaska?" 
> 
> aka yoshi's really dumb this entire chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> marches in
> 
> here u go, more comedic junk, mostly bickering and yoshi being a dumbass
> 
> lots of playwriting here that might occur more as it goes on, cuz its funny imo 
> 
> see the end for references cuz i gotta start doing that o__o
> 
> CHAISU#1874 on discord :333

Yoshi has gathered a list of things that bother Makoto after careful (or so he thinks. He's pretty sure Makoto has twenty-twenty vision even on the backside of his head) observations.

1) Surprises, like barging into his room. He never directly said it bothered him, but Yoshi could tell because he always treated him like some sort of invader instead of his roomie, which sort of blows, but he's come to understand if he wants any progress in their relationship, he ought to respect his "privacy". (Which is apparently just reading all day or perching in front of the fan. Northerners...) 

2) Being noisy past eight at night scares him if he isn't certain it's him, and he knows because he'll turn off the fan in his room so he can hear better. Yoshi liked scaring him on purpose, like the time he kept unpredictably tapping the walls just outside his room and then running in at top speed. That day, the twenty-eighth of June, he'd then on been banned from ever entering the others room ever again, instead having to chat from behind the frame, his cheek dragging along the wood.

3) Being seen by Yoshi bothers Makoto. He acknowledges this because the other adopted a schedule that made avoiding him a lot easier. On some days Makoto would be gone at the huge library doing nerd things that made his head pulse just thinking about it, and others he stayed in his room, waiting for Yoshi to return to his own before he came out to brew tea or shower. He thinks the shyness in the other is admirable in the way it would be in a small kid, but he still wishes he had a socializer as a companion and not someone who'd only speak to him seldom through the bribery of cheesecake McFlurries. 

He's gotten one nice thing outta him, though, but not directly. Makoto had called him useful earlier that morning when Yoshi urged and pressed him to take him with him to go clothes shopping. 

(This is big because whenever Makoto speaks, it's in a way that makes you sound simple-minded. Yoshi didn't notice at first, instead assuming that's just the way he talks. Some people just come out of the uterus with planned sarcastic comments.)

** YOSHI  **

_ Notices that Makoto is out of his room and dressed in another really itchy looking sweater and jeans. He also does not retreat when Yoshi comes out, as per usual. _

Are you going out?

** MAKOTO **

_ Barely acknowledging that Yoshi is standing next to him, poking around at miso soup. _

No, I'm staying home. 

** YOSHI **

_ Not getting it. There is a big question mark over his head, floating amongst the space like the DVD symbol. _

** MAKOTO **

_ Feels pity for the other's idiocracy. _

I'm going out. 

** YOSHI **

_ Showing excitement. _

Really? Where?!

** MAKOTO **

_ Pensive expression, setting his utensils down. _

I'm going shopping; it's about time I do.

** YOSHI **

_ Showing so much of it he may explode. _

Can I come with you?!

** MAKOTO **

_ Head shake. _

It's not what you think it is.

** YOSHI **

_ Visible confusion. _

Then what is it?

** MAKOTO **

_ Suddenly serious.  _

Knives. 

** YOSHI **

_ Visibly sweating.  _

Knives? 

** MAKOTO **

_ Nod. _

You can come if you know where I can get the butcher knives. Do you?

** YOSHI **

_ Sweating even more. _

Uh... what for? You aren't planning like, murder are you? 

** MAKOTO **

_ Now it's his turn to be confused. _

Hm? What do you mean?

** YOSHI **

_ Also confused. _

You're buying knives and being really creepy dude... 

** MAKOTO **

_ He shakes his head and smiles. _

For my culinary class. I haven't gotten any supplies yet, I'd like to before school starts.

** YOSHI **

_ Relaxing...? Then grinning. _

Oh. Ohhh! That makes sense! Um, well, you could probably get it at a grocery store or something, I dunno. Jeez, you scared the crap outta me... 

** MAKOTO **

_ Covers his mouth with his sleeve. _

That was a lie. 

** YOSHI **

_ Confusion, part... three? _

Huh? WHAT ARE YOU GOING SHOPPING FOR?

** MAKOTO **

_ Slightly shaking... from laughter? _

Clothes shopping... well, I assume navigation around the city is your expertise. I suppose I wouldn't mind a little help.

** YOSHI **

Then why didn't you say that before?!

** MAKOTO **

_ Shrugs nonchalantly.  _

You believed it. 

☼

Makoto's always doing something with his hands. Yoshi's certain it's a nervous habit or something because he's shown a few during their tour around the city, and being the attention deficit guy he is, he couldn't help but hyper fix on the peculiarities, catching each one before a brilliant color somewhere else grabbed his attention.

For instance, if he isn't dwindling his thumbs, he's tugging on his sleeves, or the ribbons on his sleeves, or stretching his collar. Well, now that he thinks about it, it might just be him roasting in that big, grandma-material sweater.

Yoshi couldn't critique his wardrobe, though, not when he didn't have many choices himself. He's pretty sure he has this shirt he's wearing right now in various colors shoved somewhere in his bedding and a ton of shorts that he swaps every day. He hardly has any jeans, finding the material too uncomfortable to just  _ wear  _ every day as others do, and as for footwear, he remembers only owning, like, two pairs. 

"French," The shorter male says, probably absent-mindedly, his head tipped to look up at a store's name, not having to squint his eyes as Yoshi does. He doesn't get how he somehow obtains all the vitamins for good vision when Yoshi doesn't see him eat at all.

"What?" He replies, lost. How is that supposed to be understood? Te te ho me me? And how did he just easily recognize it to be French? He assumed it was English and moved on.

"The store's name is in French. Tète Homme." He hums, and Yoshi is in disbelief how easy the other had just...  _ announced _ it. Like its as simple as saying a greeting, like its just liquid spilling from the gaps of his lips, weightless and soft. He wonders if he'd gone to some private academy where they taught European languages instead of English, which Yoshi still barely registered during the few years he frequented at school.

"You know  _ French _ ?" 

"Some. It's good to recognize some words in a language, especially when it's one that literature has coined many terms from." Makoto does that shrug again, coolly, and looks back at him. They're still just standing there, at the entry of the store, and Yoshi doesn't have a clue how he said it. He wants him to repeat it just so he can stare at his mouth and try to replicate how it moves.

"What's it mean?" 

"A man who leads. That's why they sell mainly business wear." He's walking again, and Yoshi's still  _ staring _ like he just met a star. A monarch visiting the islands on vacation, because he could do that if he wanted, and pretend to be a university undergraduate to mingle with everyone else. To experience living as someone who'd actually have to get a job in their life to survive, and not rely on secreted wealth budded from ambiguous lineage. 

He doesn't notice he's still standing there until Makoto halts and turns, at least six feet in front of him. "Hm?"

Until he remembers his mission is to assist Makoto parading about the hustle of city life, he's shocked the other even waits for him by choice. For a second, he felt as if he'd made some invisible friendship bar strike closer to reaching best friend status with the royal-blooded young gentleman in front of him. 

(Man? He isn't sure. Makoto still looks like a teenager but has the atmosphere of someone in their twenties. He could be those ultra genius kids who finished high school at thirteen and had an IQ past Einstein by the age of six.) 

He follows along, shoving his hands in his pockets, as Makoto approaches an incline down. Apparently, nothing on the second floor was pleasing enough. They've been on a wild goose chase their whole time here, and Yoshi inquiries how Makoto's able to do this but whined about how they should've caught the train the entire walk here.

"So are you like half-French?" He blurts, because he has to know, and also because it'd rationalize why the other... looks like that.

He can't see Makoto's face, but he hears him well enough. "I am many things," he hums, as if that explained anything. 

"Are you even  _ Japanese _ ?" Yoshi questions in exasperation. 

"No. I have a Japanese first and last name, but I am not Japanese. In fact, I am ten percent Korean, forty-two percent lobster, thirty-two percent watermelon, ten percent European, and six percent Javanese." 

"Japanese?"

"Javanese."

Yoshi has never learned of a Javanese in his life, and he is more concerned that Makoto is an ethnicity he's never knew existed than the fact the man shares DNA with a crustacean and a watermelon. He browses some world map in his brain, most of it blotted out due to his lack of knowledge, and can't find any plausible damn place that 'Java' could be established and named.

"You made that up!" He insists, as the two approach the last step and start to walk towards a store called TRANSITION. The store's title is big enough, in a clear font, and Yoshi can see it without squinting. 

TRANSITION smells fresh, and not like anything in particular, but bursts of cool air through a vent is a different smell than normal air. Its mainly white; the roofing and flooring and walls, the lights that were enough to choke out his own aura, and the smiles workers gave him as he navigated through attire he could positively see Makoto wearing and maybe even himself too. They were as common as you could really go, short sleeves with cute stripes and blouses and button-downs, as well as spacious, transparent cardigans that were excellent for the climate outside. They'd also jumped onto the trend Americans favored, which were cropped kimonos that hung over your shoulders, produced the same as they were in their full-fledged design, with all the geometrical shapes in harmonies of value, but smaller, and more stylish. He'd like to go back to America one day, try out an authentic burger and compare how both felt sizzling on his tastebuds. 

His daydreams are abruptly put to a stop as Makoto is speaking again, in that tiny voice that Yoshi has to incline to hear. 

"The Javanese are Indonesian natives of Java, and they are the largest ethnic group in Indonesia," Yoshi did not like school, nor did he like being schooled in a place that isn't school by someone who isn't an instructor, "I'm shocked you don't know that."

Well, 

you don't learn many things after you've dropped out sometime in middle school. Somewhere along there. He couldn't really remember all too well.

"I don't read maps," Yoshi waves a hand, dropping the topic as the fluorescent lights of the store briefly blind him, "and I don't need 'em 'cause I know Japan like the back of my hand."

"I believe you," the other has a trace of sarcasm in his voice, looking at shirts with pattern or without pattern, plucking out a few he likes best, "that's how we've gotten lost several times before making it here, I assume?" 

There he went again, using that tone that makes you feel stolid. Yoshi loathed it as much as it made him laugh these past few weeks. 

" _ You  _ wanted to use the train station! I know my way here!" He says defensively because Yoshi is very self-confident in his ability on identifying where the hell he's going if he hasn't disremembered along the way. If he didn't, he'd be somewhere distant from here, like maybe Tokyo, trudging along the alleyways in nothing but a rag to cover his crotch and a can of Coca Cola Clear in his mouth. 

"By foot takes forever, and transportation is more efficient. Forgive me, Gandhi, but I'd like to not have blisters from walking several hours all because you claim to have a mental compass." His voice took it a step further, and now, there was that same unfavorable air around him. Before, Yoshi could plunge his fingers in Makoto's waters, and it'd be lukewarm, a little charming, so he could try wriggling the rest of his body in, but now its frozen over again, and if Yoshi were to jump in headfirst, he'd get a nasty skull fracture. 

So, again, he changes topics. "Whatever. Did you find anything you like? I'm hungry." He wasn't really that hungry before, but now that he brought it up his stomach churned. When did they last eat...?

Makoto had breakfast, he didn't. Because Makoto warned to leave without him if he didn't speed, even though he's processed that that was a joke by now, and he's feeling the consequences. He'd like a MOS Burger right now, to drive his teeth into tomatoes, lettuce, onion, and beef... 

Makoto doesn't respond, so he assumes he just doesn't want to talk at all, until he's essentially spraying Yoshi with a spray bottle loaded with ice-cold Sprite, "Well if you're so hungry, why don't you go get something at the food court?" 

"'Cause you gotta eat too," Yoshi shrugs,  _ gingerly  _ approaching the feline rearing its tiny fangs, "and you might get lost. And! And. I'll get you a cheesecake McFlurry."

"I can read maps," the cat is going to scratch him, "and I'm not thirsty, thank you," no, it struck him. It could've just frightened him with a snarl, and maybe that's what it supposed it did, but Yoshi's skin prickles with the rejection.

_ Well,  _ Yoshi thinks as he heads out,  _ I tried.  _

☼

「  **_ dé·jà vu  _ **

/ˌdāZHä ˈvo͞o/

_ noun  _

a feeling of having already experienced the present situation. 」 

Yoshi might not remember, but he's been here already, in some alternative world, where maybe his name is Masaki instead, and all he did was track down yatai's in hopes for a deal of free food because he couldn't offer more than a thousand yen, which isn't too far from his everyday life, and only confuses him so much more when he sits down at the station, grin ready, dragging Makoto along, remembering each minute by each frame by each breath. He feels like he should identify exactly who it is serving him and who's standing aimlessly about, hoping that sparking small conversation would get them free yakitori, as well as a cold beer because he's witnessed it all before and he's felt it all before. He has no memory of being in Fukuoka before he'd come here months earlier, yet everything he does at this exact moment feels like muscle memory, and he  _ can't figure out why _ .

He doesn't stress, though. It's good luck, that's how he sees it. That they caught a yatai tonight of all nights and grabbed a seat before it was taken by the mobs that gathered as soon as they saw the familiar food cart barreling out into the center of the road. It's a charm that'll make sense later, and he'll recall and  _ relive  _ sitting here beside Makoto, poking at his noodles, and attach the line of events to whatever it is that karma finally gives him later on. 

He slurps his ramen, burning to his throat but rejuvenating to his tastebuds, who haven't enjoyed his favorite meal in days. Street peddlers always had a way of making food taste better than it usually did, and Yoshi is so emotionally attached to the taste, he wants to leap over onto the other side of the stand and squeeze Wakatsuchi, the guy who owns it, into a tight embrace and maybe steal some of his cooking talents so he could recreate it later. For himself, and maybe Makoto if he'd even bother touching it.

To his left, prominent eyes are contemplating into the dark dipping sauce adjacent to a bowl of soba, not quite moving to try it, yet still snapping the chopsticks together in a small twinge every so and then. Beneath the minimal lights surrounding them, he looks like a spirit that had chosen to possess him, the phantom floating along with faces that welcomed him or didn't give him a second thought. In isolation, a ghost, one bioluminescent, that only shows its colors as the sun fell into pools of violent reds and roasted oranges. 

He's reluctant. Yoshi has a strong urge to jab fun at him, but doesn't, instead inclining against his palm holding his chin, and grinning for a shoot, the cameraman being Makoto's own eyes, slowly settling on his own when he finally turns his chin. The other looks softer not just from the light, but from the steam flowing from both bowls, intermingling on a midpoint somewhere in heaven; maybe the point in which balloons popped. It fogs his sight, but Yoshi wants to see right now. 

"You should try it," Yoshi hardly gives himself time to finish before shoving more of the light, Chinese inspired noodles into his mouth, plucking the eggs from the broth to devour next, "ish shoooooo good." 

Makoto looks like he's considering, humming in thought. Yoshi's noticed that's his primary source of communication most of the time. "You shouldn't eat with your mouth open, or you'll choke." He also notices he neglects some things and pays attention to other things, like the fact he should be eating, enjoying an evening out that is still warm, and fully had the opportunity to continue being cold after their dumb dispute beforehand.

Yoshi waves the sticks around, swallowing, before speaking, "Whatever, just try one or two! Trust me, its better than usual food." 

"Better? Hm," He doesn't proceed, letting the wheat-made noodles fall into his mouth, chewing deftly. Yoshi waits for a reaction, any type, and he doesn't really get much other than burrowing eyebrows, as if he somehow figured out how to making  _ eating  _ deeper than it really is. It's astonishing. Yoshi admires his intelligence the most out of everything there is to Makoto. 

"Well?" 

"I'm not very impressed. Though it might be because it's so... messy." He sets the chopsticks to the side of the dish, setting it down slightly closer to Yoshi. "Still, the experience of it all is interesting." 

(Maybe Yoshi had to call this whole thing off.  _ He's  _ the one who needs to go first and find a new flatmate, one that likes street food.)

"Haah?" He snaps his chopsticks in denial, as the other washed out the flavor with a fruity Qoo drink that Yoshi is slightly jealous he hadn't snagged. "Maybe street food isn't your thing, have you tried street food before this?" 

Makoto looks really thin and fragile. He doesn't doubt the others never had fatty food in his life. He could imagine him as a tiny Victorian boy eating carrots with a fork for dinner, or some peasant who ate radish soup for a week straight and then died due to malnutrition.

"Maybe," the other echoes, then proceeds to sip his apple juice, which isn't enough to fill anybody, except maybe Makoto, "no. I've never seen anything like this. I've heard more populated areas had oden in food carts, but I've never seen one." 

Yoshi just stares with his mouth hanging.

"Where do you  _ come  _ from? A ghost town?" 

"I guess you could say..." he sets his chin in the palm of his hand, shifting as he watches the other quickly eat the soba he didn't like. "Not many people know where I come from." 

"It ain't Java, is it? Of course nobody knows where that is!" Save maybe geographical geniuses who read charts at the young age of three and ate glue in their past time. Yoshi's glad he'd never been one of those kids. 

"Perhaps," he teases, sitting upright, and setting the now empty Qoo onto the booth's counter, Wakatsuchi quickly taking it and tossing it into the bin, "Indonesia is hot, so I'm assuming that isn't an educated guess. I'd have shorter clothing, wouldn't I?" 

Cold. Well, Yoshi knows the entire northern half of the planet is colder than the south because the south is closer to the equator, where all the hot lava is under the dirt, so again does he bring up his unfinished map, eliminating the bottom half, and looking at whatever it is that's left. 

"ANTARCTICA?!" He yells in excitement, leaning closer to him as heads turn, some in wonder and some in annoyance at the rambunctious teens way up past their bedtime. 

"That's your first thought?" He raises an eyebrow, his hands now resting on his lap, and he doesn't look as smug as he usually would, instead puzzled. "Hm, well if I lived there, I wouldn't be here. I'd be trapped in a cage of ice, like those depictions of cavemen." 

"Uh..." Yoshi sets the chopsticks down, both meals now finished. As he thinks of wherever Makoto might've grown up in, he looks at the limited juice offers, eyeing the ramune specifically. "Siberia?!" 

Makoto shakes his head, still looking composed, but Yoshi figures he's getting a kick out of this. 

"Can ya give me a hint?" He opens the strawberry ramune, letting it fizz down his throat. "Is it close to Japan, or is it like, really really really really far away? Like, like... like Alaska?" 

"Why are you so deadset on me not being from here?" He sounds muffled because the sleeve of his sweater is there concealing his mouth again like it carried some mystery he didn't want Yoshi to see. A giveaway of his whereabouts, or something. 

"'Cause you're like..." He snaps his fingers, trying to think of the best way to put it, looking up before meeting melted gold once more. "You don't look Japanese. You look really foreign. Like maybe a teensy bit Asian, but mostly European." 

In fact, if he really concentrated on him, keeping his eyes comfortable as he looks into the browns of his pupils, they reminded him of something. The electrical spark of a memory, before it's faint and dead again, the only thing in its wake being burned circuits. 

"Hm," Makoto turns away, just as the sky's flushed tones turn plum and cool, a breeze that hadn't been there before causing him to shiver ever so slightly, "many people tell me that. You aren't the first." 

Wakatsuchi, setting up to close shop, throws on a loose scarf he'd kept for in case it grew chilly. "Y'all should head home now, your curfew passed hours ago." 

Yoshi wonders if he really looks that young too. If he could look the same age as Makoto, who barely looked to be past sixteen. 

"Aww, you're not gonna spoil us with your cooking all night?" He complains, splaying his arms across the booth with his cheek on the wood, like a toddler. "Without you, I'll starve man..." 

"I got a bed to head on to," the older man chortles, ruffling the top of Yoshi's rose-toned strands, "and you do too. Get back safe you two. Gets frightening when it's dark." 

He doesn't want to go, but he does because Wakatsuchi said so and because Makoto wouldn't mind leaving him here to decay on the side of the street, he's pretty sure. With a wave, he caught up to the other who indeed started walking, his arms wrapped around himself like he had to be preserved.

"How old are you?" He asks once they arrive at another streetlight that presents a blot of warmth, the sounds of flies swarming to the source. He doesn't mind walking all night, and he can't really estimate out what mood Makoto's in, but he doubts its a good one since they had at least ten minutes of traveling painfully by foot left. Probably way more. "Are you one of those people that graduated early?" 

"The same age you are." Now that everything is dead silent, besides the rush of air from vehicles and the scraping at the bottoms of their shoes, Makoto's voice is as distinct as day. There's a unique twinge to it, and he can't tell if that's just how he sounded all this time or if he'd only just begun using it. 

"You don't even know how old I am!" 

"You're a freshman at university. There aren't many options in a numerical sense. You aren't older than twenty, and you aren't younger than seventeen. Leaving those three numbers, seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen, if you're the age I assume you are, we are the same age." Leave it to him to investigate someone's  _ age _ . 

"What's your issue, seriously...!" Yoshi mumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets, the others intelligent burst causing him to look to the side in a showcase of slight annoyance. "Well, it depends how old you think I am!" 

"Well, yes, of course." 

"So how old do you think I am?!" This dude and never answering things, like he himself is a riddle. It makes Yoshi's brain do kickflips. 

"Well, I'll ask you this first, how old are you?" 

"I'm eighteen!" 

"Hm." Makoto's eyebrows raise again, before settling back in their original positions. "I'm eighteen too."

"Really!?" It's his turn to be surprised, taking in the others young features. "You're kidding!"

"About to be," he corrects as if it made it any better.

"About to by like,  _ years,  _ or about to as in my birthdays in a couple weeks?!" 

There is a slight upturn to the others upper lip. "Who knows?" 

" _ You  _ know!" 

"Hm..." Makoto looks far away in the distance, dramatically, as if a camera crew hid just behind them. "Maybe I don't. Maybe the nose injury you gave me those weeks ago gave me a bad case of amnesia that triggers when I eat soba..." 

"No way!" 

"You think I'd lie about something like that?" He turns to look at him as if offended by the statement. 

"It doesn't even make sense! How can your brain get triggered by soba?" This dude is always blaming him for something, first punching him on the first day, which he  _ swears  _ isn't true. 

"The brain works in wondrous ways," Makoto looks over at him, "though I don't think anyone could ever track how yours does." 

He doesn't know what that means, but he grins anyway.

Makoto's jeopardy is an endless game that Yoshi is never going to beat. The most he'd gotten out of him is his full name and the fact that he's a sneaky brat most of the time, and stingy as hell with his own information. Like as they'd been bounding up the steps to the dormitories, and Yoshi asked for his major. 

"I'm a visual performance major," he'd said, looking around the corner of the risen platform before making any other moves, as if anyone would be there, "I love to dance. I've danced since I'd been a child." 

"Everyone danced in their diapers..." Yoshi mutters but can feel himself exploding in pure glee because he'd gotten something out of Prince Manabe, who has an issue with sharing things about him for some reason, or just always avoided questions. "That's cool though! I shoulda figured, you have the body of the dancer."

"Except that I'm not actually a dancer," he shrugged and opened their room before Yoshi had time to process he'd been lied to, "and if I  _ were  _ a dancer I'd major in dance, not general visual performance." 

In Yoshi's mind, he can imagine a clear scenario in which Makoto ends up confessing everything to him because the pressure of lying to such a sweet soul is too much. 

** MAKOTO **

_ Bursts into Yoshi's room, tears streaming down his eyes, clutching the front side of his maroon sweater. _

Yoshi, please forgive me, but-- 

** YOSHI **

_ Dancing to Michael Jackson. _

WOAH DUDE, what's wrong???

** MAKOTO **

_ Pausing entirely, as the vocals in Rock with You quite literally put his mind to ease. _

What is this..?

** YOSHI **

_ Confusion. _

Whats what???

** MAKOTO **

Whatever you're playing... what is it?

** YOSHI **

_ Glowing. _

UM, DUDE, NONE OTHER THAN ROCK WITH YOU BY MICHAEL JACKSON IN THE ALBUM OFF THE WALL MADE IN 1979 PRODUCED BY QUINCY JONES! 

** MAKOTO **

_ Swaying. _

That's sick..!

It'd never happen, but he'd like to think he's a good scriptwriter. 

Now though, it's loud pop music as Yoshi's eyes are taken back and forth, back and forth, following the path of the vacuum cleaner that moves across the floor aggressively and effectively, like it took an additional push for it to slide so gracefully against low carpeting. He's sitting like one of those meditation guys, with their hands clasped together, saying 'omm' with their eyes shut, floating and all. 

Yachi is eating pink grapefruit sorbet and isn't sharing, which is offensive in itself. He's watching one of those Korean dramas Nana makes them watch, and he is taking up most of the sofa, and Yoshi feels an urge to push him onto the vacuum handle so all three of them topple over. But he rules against it, even though it'd be funny. 

The main reason he agreed to come over is that Makoto went out first in the morning as he slept, probably to the boring old library, and he doesn't have anything to do within the confinements of the school building because the only people outside of their rooms were a bunch of girls religiously watching nail tutorial videos in the lounge and ogling about how long Americans wore their acrylics.

"Nana's music is so trash," Yachi remarks, as she moves away to the hallway, the unique beats and light voice of an indie singer reverberating everywhere in the small apartment. He jabs at Yoshi with a socked foot, and then hits his heel on the edge of the glass table, yowling in distress like an injured feline and dropping the sorbet all over the floor. 

These sort of things happens in seconds. Yoshi can only see a smudge of pink against gray, and then a bunch of pink against fashionable 80's patterned carpeting, which didn't match the flat at all, but he remembers picking it for them when they'd gone to a closing store that offered things at sixty percent off, which is pretty decent. 

"Shit! Fuck! Yoshi go get tissues in the kitchen and hurry!" 

Yoshi can't hear him past his laughter.

"Dude I mean it! She's going to  _ kill  _ me! I mean she was just over here...!!" 

His yelling is louder than the television, where a student at a desk is painting a piece, its soft classical background cords an odd juxtaposition against Yachi's wailing. Nana doesn't notice through her music, and enters their shared room, next to the bolted room, and the loud sucking of that terrible machine starts once more.

The kitchenette is white and a little bigger than the living room, which he finds uncanny because they don't have anything to put in there. The fridge is packed with stuff that's already cooked and then frozen so they could heat it up and eat later, and they all look fairly the same besides a cake that is nestled in the way back. The sink has the mouth of a lion on its faucet, one purchased by Yachi when they'd moved here and decided it looked too bland. There is a poster on the wall of an actress they both like, again, weird, because its the kitchen, and weird again, because she is bare-breasted and very suggestive looking. When you visit, you sort of have to keep your eyes down, because her gaze makes you feel bad, even if you haven't done anything

The tissues are in the same cupboard as where all the flour and baking powder are. There are adorable cutout shapes of hearts and characters with rounded heads, and Yoshi wants to steal them to make pancakes with. 

"Dude, why are the tissues in here?" He calls, boredly moving his hands in and out of hot water and pumping dish soap just to pump dish soap. He usually runs Yachi's patience thin for fun. Yachi is the kind of person you offend on purpose because you know they won't resent you for it and because it's so funny it isn't even intimidating. 

"DUDE! TISSUES! NOW!" 

"Dude, why are your tiles so dirty?" He looks down to investigate, annoyingly bringing his face closer to the floor. There isn't much to look at without a microscope. Just dust and irregular crumbs. 

"DUDE--wait, really? I just cleaned it like thirty minutes ago! Get out of there!" 

"Your kitchen needs a new painting job, dude!" Yoshi scrutinizes the color of the walls and their conditions. The kitchen is mostly brown and frappuccino colored, with a few dull oranges here and there. "Make it red. Like, everything. Just a bunch of red, it can sorta match my hair." 

That he still needs to redye, but that's been shouldered into the  _ bottom  _ of the list of things he has to do. Above that are calculating out how to go to catch the sun and get rid of his guilty conscience. 

"YOSHI!" There isn't much else Yoshi can delay on, so he walks out, sluggishly, beyond the daunting poster and into the living room, where the older man, old enough to drink now, is ferociously brushing at the pink stain on the carpet, tears running down his cheeks. 

All he's done so far is just spread the stain around, so the margin of the spot is more than it'd been just minutes ago. "I don't think tissues can save you at this point..." Itching his cheek, he could only watch as Yachi rips out various sheets of tissue and layers them on the floor.

"Sit on it!" He commands, pointing a sleeved hand at the spot. 

"Huh?"

"SIT. ON. IT." 

Yoshi doesn't have anything to lose, not when he has numerous other pairs of the same shorts, so he slowly lowers himself onto the masses, trying to find a comfortable position amidst the damp feeling on his ass and the absence of space between the couch and the coffee table, being mindful not to hit it too hard and cause the antique radio to fall, the one that Nana wants to get rid of so badly but won't because Yachi  _ and  _ Yoshi will cry and they will cry openly for months on end. 

"If she asks you to move, don't. Just ignore her or something dude. Say the shows too good." Yachi is spreading his hands back and forth on his head so much, Yoshi's amazed he doesn't have carpet burn. The dyed blue spikes on his head make noises that are similar to velcro and it's disturbing to sit by and listen to. "What even is this show...? The main character sleeps around with his own works of art. It's weird as all hell." 

"At least he can draw," Yoshi commentaries, now tempted to play with his own hair, "imagine if he couldn't and he could only create stickmen... Actually! The show would be funnier!" 

"It puts me to sleep, man..." Yachi yawns, stretching out his upper body, cooking in that big black sweater. What is up with everyone he knows and refusing to just wear short sleeves during the summertime? "Like, think about it. Isn't that weird? To like, screw something you knew was just on paper before. That's like, genuinely being attracted to fictional, 2D people." 

Nana's music goes from hyperenergetic to quiet and brooding as she enters the lavatory. Yoshi hears things turn on that he didn't even know were in there. "I dunno," he shrugs, looking at the display of receipts they have glued to the wall, "I think it's like, inflated ego in his case. 'Cause he's like my work is so good I wanna make love to it." 

"And us the viewers just let it happen..." 

"Well, duh, what are we gonna do? Hop in and tell 'em he's weird? I mean, it's an interesting plot!" They also always have some sort of obligation to make everything as exaggerated as they possibly can, like the main character getting a pencil from the future love interest. 

"You're thinking too much, kid," Yachi yawns, proving his point of being drowsy, and leaning his head back, "offer me some of the space you have in that brain of yours..." 

Being in the same space as someone who is way more intelligent than you and uses terms you've never heard of through your fourth-grade vocabulary makes it hard to believe you have the capacity to be intelligent, so Yachi's compliment is recognized for a moment before it's left because he remembers Yachi is just as much of an idiot as he is. Two idiots in a pod. Conjoined, they'd have seven whole brain cells, and that's being generous.

"Are you seriously sleeping?" Now, the main character is puking out contents that look like the reflection of gasoline or oil on the ground. He'd just found out some horrible risk to his pieces coming alive, and now he has to eliminate all of them or something. "You're gonna miss this part!" 

Yachi snores in response, his leg twitching frequently as if to remind him he isn't listening. Without him speaking, though, it's easier for him to focus, and time dances by as funky sounds come from the corridor, the same sad songs are heard from the galley, and bass booted rap is heard from a room he's been accustomed to forget exists. 

☼

His room, in contrast to Makoto's, is surprisingly average. There is a cup of cider resting beside his window that adds a messy appeal, and plaid blankets that match the white of the sheets and pillows. With the lamp on, there's more to look at than with it off; there isn't anything imaginary his brain can come up within the dark when there isn't much to his quarters at all. So he draws.

Drawing gives Yoshi the power to put anything onto paper he fancies. If he wants a big LED mirror that's able to change the fullness of his comforts into reds and magentas and blues, he'll put it wherever he wants. If he wants his ceiling to be covered in stars that jump to the music he plays, he'll add it, and if he wants every inch of every partition in his room to be covered in posters and photographs and everything that  _ isn't  _ wall, it'll be there, and he'll have himself on his cot, next to the window, singing with the birdies. 

In drawing, if anyone isn't scrutinizing you for it, you can do anything. He could make his room bigger. He could shove a huge couch in it, big enough to seat all of his friends, and he could have a prominent motherboard computer that reports to him like shows. He could have a pet chicken who guards his front door. He could have an extensive bathroom that provides a platform for him if he ever wants to sing in the shower. He could have a special kitchen with staff from the future who prepare foods that are popular in 6083, like food that radiates or the popularization of finger fries. He could have an individual vehicle that serves oranges and every chauffeur who drives it must have a bowl cut. 

Then realistic ideas come, after all of those fantasies. He'll have a collection of posters over his headboard, and all the photos Yachi's willing to give of him, and speakers for when Makoto's gone and he's pretty much waiting for him to get back. He'll have a lot of pillows, so much that some will have to dwell on the floor, and the LED lights are staying. He'll organize his clothes someday and have them somewhere easy to locate like next to his bed and he'll get a pet fish because he wants one. And he's going to go buy yellow and blue paint to design his walls which he isn't even sure if he's entitled to do but is doing anyway. 

There's so much you'd be able to tell about Yoshi solely off his bedroom, yet there is nothing you could really get out of Makoto's the innumerable times he'd been in there before the ban.

Only that he likes reading books. Makoto has a lot of works in his room, like Kafka on the Shore and The Temple of the Golden Pavillion, and other titles he tried to retain and ended up forgetting (though he's pretty sure his favorite author is Haruki Murakami; he saw a lot of that name. But maybe his books are just really good.) because they were way too long-drawn and unnecessary. 

There's also a ton of children's books he remembers reading, like The Little Girl at the Window or A Well-Ordered Restaurant, which are two completely distinct genres, but he assumes he doesn't discriminate amongst stories; just whether or not they're good.

There were English titles too, and probably French ones, and probably Javanese ones. Other than those, all he really has is a bed, a table to work at, a fan, and some plants, as well as an entire collection of stationery. He could like calligraphy too. He'd take that for 400 under the category Makoto's Interests.

(At this point, he doubts Makoto is even his name. Maybe he's Dutch. His name could be Jameson James, son of Jackson Jackson.) 

Makoto's also really good at pretending he doesn't know what you're talking about when he knows what you're talking about, and it makes Yoshi feel like  _ he  _ doesn't even know what he's talking about. "Your colors."

"My colors?" Yoshi isn't really sure where to place his focus on. Makoto, or the food he's making. Makoto because he's out of his room and isn't dressed to  _ go  _ anywhere, and the stove because it smells nice. It smells like domestication and tofu and Makoto's presence makes it better because he isn't trying to run away or avoid him. 

"The colors on your desk! You have colors." Makoto hums. He's in a long-sleeved shirt, as regular, and it's a faded beige as if the full capacity of the color is too much for him. 

"I do?"

Yoshi wonders if this is how it feels speaking to him. Talking to stupid people can get really infuriating. Not even stupid people, people who pretend to be stupid is probably a better wording of it. With Yoshi, you can't get too mad at him, because he's naturally and genuinely stupid.

"I'm  _ pretty  _ sure! I mean, I've seen them before on your desk, but you weren't using them. They weren't even out of their packages yet!" Yoshi leans across the floor, still sitting at the entrance of the small kitchen, wondering why the hell the university didn't supply them with at least a small table. "You know what I'm talking about." 

Makoto pours himself some easy soup in a bowl, adding another plate for his tofu, and finally turns, so Yoshi can blink up at his face. "They're Midliner markers. I'm sure you'll find them anywhere." 

Yoshi groans in the fact that that means he has to  _ do  _ something. "Why do that when I can just borrow them off of you?" 

"If you want them so desperately you'll get them," Makoto dines on his dish as he went towards his door, "and I need them to highlight my notes."

" _ What  _ notes?! School hasn't even started!" 

"Yes, it hasn't. And somehow, you've managed to completely trash your room..." Okay, maybe that's kind of true. But the entire  _ point  _ of this conversation is to get colors so he can  _ fix  _ his room! 

"I did not trash my room." 

Makoto is very good at conveying messages without saying, just looking. Now with tofu in his mouth. 

"Okay, so even if I  _ did  _ trash my room, I need colors to fix it," he stands up, itching his black t-shirt and going to look if there's any more soup left, "and I don't feel like going out. I feel like you. Your name should be a verb for that." 

"Hm?" 

"I don't feel like going into public and actually seeing  _ people _ ." He takes the rest in the pot and gets more tofu from the fridge. Tofu is relatively easy to prepare. You don't even have to prepare it most times. "I could go out if everyone vanished for ten minutes, and it was just me." 

"The number of people you'd see getting markers is slim to none compared to the faces you see just in this school..." He also wishes Makoto weren't so logical sometimes, but then listening to him would be more boring. He likes the fact that every time Makoto opens his mouth he has the opportunity to learn something.

"Okay, but what if I don't wanna see anyone at all?" 

Makoto chews carefully and calculatingly, still standing next to a door that hasn't been opened, and under lights that turn his skin a weird yellowish value. "You're drawing?" 

"I'm planning out my dream room. Wanna see it?" There is a bubbling of excitement residing in the pits of Yoshi's stomach that is eager to explode and throw itself at the smaller, more composed male in front of him. "I have a pet chicken and I eat finger fries." 

Makoto's eyebrows burrow in slight confusion, but if he has questions he doesn't ask them. "Okay," he nods. 

It still smells like apples in his room when he unlocks the door and walks in, traversing to the sketchpad on his bed covered head to toe in pencil marks, ranging from soft to hard to rounding to sharp, shapes that are geometrical and made up, the use of imagination producing a page of variety and difference. Makoto peers down, in some sort of staring trance, and even picks it up to look at it himself. 

Yoshi lets him, forgetting his very own presence as he picks at stuff to clean up. The room is quiet, and he feels like there's a heavy weight of judgment spread across his shoulders emanating from the others graceful aura, but he swears he's imagining it, because looking over from the wastebin in where he tosses everything away, Makoto's expression is softened like castella cakes. 

"You're an art major?" 

Yoshi is surprised Makoto spoke, and to ask him that too. "Nah. I draw as a hobby, though! Like it?" 

"It's good," he hums, and it sounds flittery, like the buzz of spring and a bounce in the step, instead of its usual, 'I'm listening' hum, "I'm surprised you don't take the talent somewhere bigger..." 

"I dunno. I don't think I like it enough to make it my like, job. I really like money though!" He shoves a bunch of plastic water bottles into the wastebin that was cradled underneath his mattress. "If I tell you my major will you tell me yours?" 

It worked last time. That's how he got a step closer to knowing Makoto's age. It could work again. It'd be a relief if it did. 

"I figured mine was a little obvious..." he sits, both hands in his lap, with the pad of art sitting beside him, peering at the other curiously and calmly, like a pond with no ripples.

"Whaddaya mean?" He grumbles, finally having a  _ second  _ to look at him, taking in his position worlds apart from him, and going right back to shuffling through the mass of clothes on the floor. "You're an actor, right? That's why you're so comfy with lying!"

Makoto hums, but it doesn't mean 'you're correct' or 'you're wrong'. "I wish," he concludes. 

"Money should've been a big hint for me," he tries instead, wondering how an empty container of mac and cheese made its way here, "I'm in econ. I hope it won't be boring. But you can't turn  _ money  _ boring! That's impossible." 

"I'm afraid school can turn anything boring..." Makoto sets his fingers daintily on his chin. "I major in literature."

Well... Yoshi should've known, but it would've been cooler if he majored in bagpiping, which is an actual thing he considered when they moved here because it sounded so ridiculous to him when he read it in the car.

"That's why you love books so much," the floor is visible now that he's shoved everything somewhere, and he stands to proudly admire his minimum work, "you're right. Kinda obvious. But! You're full of surprises, you know that?" 

"I could be lying. If I told you I majored in auctioneering, would you believe me?"

"No way! Your voice is too quiet for that!" Yoshi plops next to him, laying obnoxiously and taking hold of his notepad, that smells faintly of lavender. "I could see you in agriculture though. Like, learning how to plant plants on a farm." 

It's coming from Makoto. He smells faintly of lavender, too. "What?"

"You look like a Victorian kid, but not as miserable. You look kinda Canadian."

"You think I look like everything..."

"Everything but Javanese," he props his pencil in between his fingers, waving it back and forth like it were a wand, "I'm still not convinced that place is real."

"So Java isn't real because you say so?"

Yoshi draws curves, a lot of curves, and loops, and lines of legs, and lines of shape and posture, and lines of a face and pulls of hair and the pressure of a finalized position. He draws and it isn't rushed. It matches its muse; fragile, soft at the edges, and rounded, with no sudden marks and no mistakes. The pencil drags along, unweighted, yet precise in everything it did. 

"Mm. Nah." 

He erases, and he erases purposefully, and then he draws again. He makes quick, short lines at a time, and then long ones, and the fold of clothing. The sketch in front of him looks softly back at him, relaxed, like its puppeteer let go of its strings. 

"Oh, okay. Well, you're the expert." 

"Uh-huh."

He writes on the sides. It starts from the top left near its owner and goes down to a midpoint of the left. And then he thinks.

"I think I'm gonna color this in colored pencils instead," he hums, sitting up, "do you have any?" 

Makoto nods slightly again, just barely noticeable. And then he's out of the room, and Yoshi's gaze travels with him. 

The rest of the evening, Yoshi layers soft colors, and eventually falls asleep in the same position he'd been in that reality. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * yatai's are japanese food carts, like food trucks in america, but they're mainly in fukuoka (which literally has like.... entire spots designated for them, its cool) and kumamoto, selling mainly street food but some are designated to specific dishes
> 
> * tete homme n transition are stores in canal city hakata which is a place in fukuoka that is basically so big that they call it a city inside of a city
> 
> * MOS Burger is a popular food chain in japan that serves mainly burgers if you couldn't tell, and the way you eat them is kinda cute to me... 
> 
> * you can probably search up what takoyaki is but its these wheat balls filled with octopus, tempura, ginger, and green onion, with a ton of toppings
> 
> * also omg shikata kikai is not a real school, its one i made up for the plot of my story, but it is loosely based off of seinan gakuin university in fukuoka
> 
> i think that's everything....... heh......... have a good day >U<


End file.
